


Nothing Lasts Forever

by cowpoke69



Series: Do Not Seek Absolution [7]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Mention of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 00:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowpoke69/pseuds/cowpoke69
Summary: A collection of stories set before the events of RDR2.He is scared, terrified, and the way his heart beats inside of his chest makes him all jittery. He notices that Hosea’s hair has gotten longer now, and that his time spent basking in the sun with Bessie gave him a few freckles around the nose. Arthur suddenly wants to go back to the little cottage. Go back to simple things, to an easier life. Bessie would probably know what to say. She’s always had a way with words. Making them less blunt, less hurtful. Prettier.Hosea’s hand goes from Arthur’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, similar to the way Dutch’s did when he last saw him, but this time there are no ill intentions hidden behind the action.“Afraid?” Hosea asks.“Nah. I'm fine.” Lies.





	Nothing Lasts Forever

**Author's Note:**

> hello there, just a head's up: this work is part of a series, so if you're interested in reading what happens before, check out the previous part(s) of the series. it will probably give you a better understanding of the tension between hosea and dutch.

They are both drenched in rain and filth when they arrive to the new camp location. It’s the middle of the night and they are in dire need of a well-deserved rest. Arthur pats his horse between the ears, grateful, before hitching her to one of the posts. 

“Good girl,” he whispers before taking in the new surroundings.

Hosea imitates him, observing their new home for a moment. This time it’s a lot fancier than what they’re used to. There is actually a house, big and inviting, and there is no need for their worn tents. Arthur smiles, tentatively, in a desperate attempt to shake off the anxiousness from his limbs. But there is a lump forming inside of his throat, expanding minute by minute. 

“Dutch outdid himself this time,” he whispers. More of an afterthought than a real statement. 

Hosea lets out a nervous chuckle before putting an arm around his shoulders. They walk towards the porch, and when they’re finally a few centimeters away from the massive door, they both stop in their tracks, synchronized. Arthur turns his face towards his mentor and when their eyes meet, there is no need for words. He is scared, terrified, and the way his heart beats inside of his chest makes him all jittery. He notices that Hosea’s hair has gotten longer now, and that his time spent basking in the sun with Bessie gave him a few freckles around the nose. Arthur suddenly wants to go back to the little cottage. Go back to simple things, to an easier life. Bessie would probably know what to say. She’s always had a way with words. Making them less blunt, less hurtful. Prettier.

Hosea’s hand goes from Arthur’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, similar to the way Dutch’s did when he last saw him, but this time there are no ill intentions hidden behind the action.

“Afraid?” Hosea asks. 

“Nah. I’m fine.” Lies.

“It’s okay to be scared.”

“I ain’t scared. Just – nervous, I guess. I’m just – I’ll figure it out on my own. It’s my doing Hosea, I need to take care of it.”

“Fair enough.”

Hosea’s grip on the back of his necks grows firmer, yet softer than anything he’s felt in a long time. Arthur closes his eyes, wishing with all of his heart that Dutch isn’t inside, waiting for them. That he might be gone for a few days, and that it’ll give him more time to come up with a way of announcing the news. He looks at Hosea’s face for guidance; at his kind eyes twisting into a concerned look. At the way his lips turn into a soft smile, reassuring, but not enough. It is rarely enough when it comes to Dutch, really. Arthur barely hears Hosea’s words when they leave his mouth, the sound of his voice half-drowned by the unruly wind. 

“I’ll protect you. Don’t you worry.”

Hosea’s hand leaves the back of his head and Arthur finds himself longing for the warm pressure. Trying – once again – to chase the fluttering embrace of love. Hosea knocks on the door in Morse code – aware of the fact that only Dutch understands it – and they patiently wait; Arthur shaking from the unusually chilly temperatures of this summer night, Hosea trying not to show his anxiousness. The door opens after a short while, revealing the canon of a rifle, immediately followed by Dutch’s face. Hosea holds his hands up above his head, in mock surrender. But there is nothing funny about it. Not this time. Arthur wants to throw up so badly that when Dutch heavily sighs and pronounces their names, one after the other, he actually takes a step back from the now fully opened door. His mind is already buzzing with a million different thoughts when he dares to enter the house, following Hosea like a shadow. 

“You both smell.” Dutch says, tone a bit lower than usual.

Hosea doesn’t even bother looking him in the eye while he answers. “Glad to see you as well.”

Dutch tries as best as he can not to lose face, but Arthur senses – in the way the older man briefly hugs him – that every single nerve in his body is dancing on the edge of a cliff. Dutch lets go of the rifle to let it rest against a wall, near the entrance, before leading the both of them to a room that appears to serve as both kitchen and living room. 

“Want something to eat?” he asks.

Hosea doesn’t say a word. He’s too busy holding his hands above the flames of the foyer, in a desperate attempt to give them a bit of color.

“Sure,” replies Arthur, not entirely sure if he’ll actually be able to eat something before he talks to Dutch. 

Hosea takes out his hat and his coat, without paying them attention. And Arthur is convinced that he is actually staying in the same room as Dutch just to protect him if things go bad. Otherwise, he would probably already be heating up enough water to be able to take a late night bath. Arthur takes a seat at the table, fingers shaking as he tries to take off his riding leather gloves. Hosea sits by the fire, producing a cigarette from a tin box and lighting it up with the dancing flames of the foyer. Arthur gladly accepts the glass of water that Dutch puts down in front of him, along with a thick slice of bread and some cheese. He proceeds to try some of the cheese while Dutch sits on the bench across from the table, but he pulls out a face at the smell. He’ll pass.

“Still a picky eater, I see.” Dutch scratches his beard with one hand, Arthur ignores his comment.

Arthur takes a long, deep breath. “I have something to tell you.” 

From the corner of his eye, he’s able to spot Hosea tapping on the tiles covering the floor with the fingertips of his left hand. The right hand being too busy bringing cigarette after cigarette to his lips.

“I’m all ears, son” Dutch says, both hands now folded on top of the table. 

“I met this girl a while ago. Eliza.”

“Hm, you’ve never mentioned her before.” Dutch’s voice is calm; he’s trying to analyze the situation. 

From where he’s seated, Arthur hears Hosea mutter: “You never asked.”

“Well,” Arthur tries as hard as he can not to panic, “we fooled around, and…”

“What?”, Dutch interrupts, “How come I didn’t know that my boy is now a man.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, and he considers telling Dutch right then and there that he is actually the worst when he puts his mind to it. 

“Dutch,” Hosea snarls, his intervention calming Arthur just a little bit, “just listen.”

Dutch listens. Arthur inhales. Nails scratching against the surface of the table. Uneasy.

“She got pregnant.”

Arthur looks at Hosea; instinctively. A lone fox sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for Dutch to say or do something stupid in order to grab him by the neck. His eyes go back to Dutch, and the way he looks at him, in a state of total disbelief, makes him want to cower back into a very dark place, far from this whole situation.

“Come again?” Dutch’s voice sounds so distant, covered by the sound of Arthur’s own heartbeat. 

“He said,” Hosea rises from his spot, an angel in disguise, putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, giving him a light squeeze, “that Eliza is pregnant.”

“I heard that.” Dutch snaps. Just a little bit. Dangling over the edge. Ready to take a leap. 

“Then what’s the problem, really?”

“Oh, I see,” Dutch presses the palms of his hands against the sides of his face, as if to stop himself from entirely losing it. “We’re doing this.”

“Dutch,” Arthur tries, ready to face Dutch’s fury, now that Hosea is towering over Dutch, right next to him, “I will take care of them myself. I ain’t asking for money or help, or whatever. I just want you to know that I got this. Alright?”

“You got this?” Dutch let’s out a hollow laugh, followed by what awfully sounds like a curse word.

He fumbles into the pocket of his waistcoat in order to put a cigar between his lips. A habit of his, when things tend to not go his way. He tries to light it – once, twice. Arthur stops counting when the silence grows so thick that he wants to take back everything he’s said after walking through that door. He lifts his head up to look at Hosea, but his unreadable expression does nothing to help him. So he reaches for the zippo in his pocket and lights up Dutch’s cigar, caught up in his constant attempt to live up to his expectations. Dutch finally grants him a look. And Arthur wants to dematerialize. He wants to leave. Now and forever. Never to be seen again. Hosea tenses, his nails digging so deep into Arthur’s shoulder that he whimpers in pain. They have both witnessed the same look. The same expression on Dutch’s features. The same tone on his voice.

“I swear to God,” Hosea starts, ready to physically lash out at Dutch, and Arthur is so quick on his feet that it gives him an instant headache. He plants a firm hand against Hosea’s chest, and he doesn’t need to look in the opposite direction to know that Dutch is now standing as well. Arthur stays between the two of them, facing Hosea. He focuses on the smoke coming out of Dutch’s cigar, the way it floats all around them, the smell burning his throat. And the throbbing pain in the back of his skull. He’d rather get his head bashed in; it’d be quicker to get on with. Dutch clears out his throat, and Arthur’s stomach drops. 

“You do realize that your recklessness will probably get her killed?”

Hosea tries to push past Arthur, going feral in an instant.

“Don’t you do that Dutch, or I swear to God I’ll kick your teeth out of your goddamn mouth.”

Dutch ignores him, and Arthur tries to restrain Hosea as much as he can, half of his mind overwhelmed by Dutch’s poisonous words, the other half trying to process them. He has thought about it. Days and nights spent thinking about their mistake. Thinking about the way Colm would probably go after her next. In retaliation for what Dutch did to his dear brother. Anabelle. Eliza. Life, ever so fragile.

“You know what Dutch? You’re so – afraid.” Hosea spits. Fire coming out of his mouth, fueled by something that Arthur has never seen in him. 

“Of what? Being killed by Colm and his men as soon as they hear about this? I sure as hell am.”

“Oh no. You’re not afraid of death. You’re afraid of change,” Hosea’s voice breaks and Arthur let’s go of him. “You’re afraid of things happening without you being able to control them. This is not one of your plans Dutch. This is not yours. This – this is not yours to destroy.”

Arthur turns around, now looking at Dutch’s livid expression.

“This is not about me,” Dutch articulates ever single word, so slowly that Arthur wonders if he’s lost it, or if he’s still trying to hang on, desperately, to the edge of that cliff.

“You better get your head straight, Dutch.”

“And you better start showing some respect to me.”

Hosea’s fist hits the table. Arthur blinks, unable to process the fact that he’s still standing between the two of them. If it weren’t for his presence, surely Hosea would have both of his hands around Dutch’s neck in order to shut him up. But Arthur is here, and judging by the way Hosea is slowly losing the last remnants of patience that are left in him, he needs to step in. Do something. Say something, he keeps repeating to himself. In vain. Instead he just looks at Dutch, all the while feeling Hosea tense by his side, fist still on the table, unable to keep himself from going mad. Arthur watches as he walks past him, planting himself in front of Dutch, grabbing him by the collar. Shaking him, slightly, his features deformed by pure anger. Dutch smiles at him, faintly, cigar still in his mouth. 

“Do not test my patience, Dutch. Or I’m going to wipe that smile off your face.”

Hosea leaves. And it’s just the two of them. Again. And Arthur’s blunt nails dig into the palm of his right hand, distracting from the distress and the fear that Dutch’s reaction has unleashed upon him. Dutch puts out his cigar against the wooden table, leaving a burnt circle on top of the surface. And when he sits, Arthur sits. Because the sudden loneliness that pours out of the older man reminds him of his own. And no matter what Dutch says, not matter what he puts him through, no matter how hard Arthur sometimes wants to scream at him; he is lonely, lonely, and he knows it too well. They don’t exchange a word for a while. Arthur goes back to what he did before – scratching the surface of the table – in order to calm his nerves. And eventually, Dutch puts a hand on top of his. Drawing and end to Arthur’s nervous tic. Arthur’s focus goes from the fire crackling in the foyer, the wind still roaring outside of the house, to Dutch. To the warmth of his hand, the strain in his voice.

“I cannot afford to lose someone else. Not you. Not Hosea. I just – I would probably go insane. And I wouldn’t want you to experience that type of loss. Not ever. Do you understand, Arthur?”

Arthur nods. Dutch rarely calls him by his name. 

“I understand.”

━━━━━━━━

Eliza gives birth to a healthy baby on the last day of winter, right after the sun has set and the wind has calmed down. Arthur holds his infant son for the first time when he is only a few minutes old, having been staying with Eliza for a few days prior to her giving birth. Arthur stays still, unable to bring himself to say anything that would actually be relevant. The baby cries, before settling into his arms, a small creature brought into a cruel life. Arthur feels insignificant next to him, and Eliza is too tired to reassure him verbally, but her hand finds his cheek and all is well, if only for a little while. He stays there, enjoying the little noises coming out of the baby’s mouth, and Eliza’s soft breathing, interrupted when she tries to change positions. She’s been crouching on the floor. The easiest way to give birth, she’d told him. Arthur places the baby in the makeshift cradle, making sure that he is warm enough, before helping her getting on her feet. 

“When did you learn how to handle a baby better than a revolver?” she manages, her words coming out of her mouth in a rush.

Arthur shrugs, helping her on her way to the water filled basin in the corner of the room. “No idea. I guess I’m a natural. I’m talented like that.”

Humor. He’s learned to master it during the past few months. His only true companion when facing the most unsettling situations. And it seems to work. Eliza laughs. He goes back to the baby, sitting on the floor, by the bed, while she tries to wash the blood off of her legs as best as she can. She is now living in a little house outside of Munford. It’s nothing much, and she had first refused to leave when Arthur asked her to do so. He had tried, for the first three months of her pregnancy. Begging her to listen to him, incessantly. She had agreed only after he had knocked on her door one morning, covered in blood. And she had listened when he’d implored her to leave, for her own sake.

And now that Colm has laid low, he feels a bit less agitated. But happiness is a fragile state, that much he knows. And Dutch’s compromise with the O’Driscoll gang is a dagger – dangling above their heads, hanging only by a thread. Arthur looks down at the baby, wondering why it feels so surreal. He’s startled by Eliza’s presence, as she sits on the floor, enjoying the freshness of the tiles on her bare legs. Arthur covers her shoulders with a blanket. Their relationship has turned into a comforting companionship, rather than the passion-fueled romance that it used to be. Arthur kisses her temple and she closes her eyes, exhausted.

“You should get some rest. Hell, you deserve it. You just pushed a whole damn baby out of you.”

Eliza grimaces. “Well, said like that it does sound disgusting. No wonder you pulled all of those faces while I was screaming at the top of my lungs.”

Arthur laughs, easily falling back into the comfort of their usual banter.

“Did you think about a name?”

“Mh,” she hums, resting her head on his lap while he pulls a few strands of damp hair away from her face, “Isaac. The one who laughs. I like it.”

Arthur repeats the name, enjoying the way it rolls out of his tongue. “What if he just cries. All the time. No laughing. Just constant crying.”

Eliza gives him a light elbow nudge, below the ribcage, and Arthur let’s out a fake “ouch”.

“Okay, Isaac. I like it.”

“You’re a father, Arthur,” she says, yawning. 

He tries to give her a reply before she falls asleep, but no words would do justice to his emotions.

━━━━━━━━

And there are no words. No sentences. Nothing – really – that would describe what goes through his mind when he goes back to them on a summer day, three years later, only to come across their bodies buried in the backyard of the house, right next to the spot where he used to sit with Isaac, teaching him about all the animals he’d see while hunting.  


No words to describe the agony.

Piercing through his heart.

The pain – blinding – latching onto him even when Hosea tries to soothe him – when he goes back to camp – crying like he has never cried before. Tears soaking Hosea’s shirt and bleeding through the fabric. Cries full of hurt and rage. Breath coming out of his mouth in strangled sounds. Pure grief; destroying everything in its wake. Hosea’s voice, soft, grounding, comforting. 

“I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

Arthur, screaming at him in the middle of the night, when it feels like nothing will ever be okay again. Not now. Not ever. 

Susan, trying to convince him that staying in bed all day long will be the end of him. Reminding him of his father’s last words to him. Maybe, just maybe, he really did leave a part of his soul inside of that prison cell. A part of him. 

And Dutch. Spending most of his nights trying to find out what happened. Torturing a man under the shade of a tree – just like Hosea had done for him – asking for a name, a motive. 

But there is no motive. And it breaks Arthur’s heart into a million pieces. Knowing that they were killed for a few dollars. 

Ten. 

Precisely. 

Nothing compared to the value of their lives. 

John sits next to him, by the fire, their preferred spot. He’s grown. Tall and lean. They drink. And Arthur appreciates the silence. For once, no one tries to tell him how or what he should be thinking, doing. Or how things will be when he gets over this. He doesn’t know how to get over it. Doesn’t want to. Not yet. This is beyond his reach, beyond his capacities. He cannot bring himself to think about what comes after. It is too early. Too early. Copper, his dog, still a puppy, lays down next to him, enjoying a few scratches between the ears. Arthur tries to remember why Hosea got him a dog in the first place, but his mind is an empty canvas. The alcohol paints a few images, a few memories, on the back of his mind.

He thinks about Dutch, and what he said to him the previous night. It’s been two weeks. Two weeks and it’s the first time he’s heard something so harsh yet so true come out of the mouth of his adoptive father in two weeks. 

“Time will pass and numb you to it, Arthur. And you’ll tear up again at feeling numb to it. Grief cannot be bargained. You just have to live with it.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading, don't be afraid to leave comments. you can find me on twitter @cowpoke69. lots of uwus.


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